He Returned Adjusted
by Avonlea Inspirations
Summary: Edmund was not the only one whom boarding school changed. Peter, too, was forced to adjust; and he unconsciously betrayed his brother.
1. Departure

**AN:** Another multi-chapter story that simply wouldn't leave me alone. Written in the same style of "The Fragile Heart" (which I am still working on studiously), this story shall attempt to fill in the gaps as to what Peter went through at school until Edmund joined him. It shall also attempt to show how Peter himself changed.

Reviews are treasured, and I hope you enjoy reading.

**Disclaimer:** No, I do not own _The Chronicles of Narnia_. Thanks for rubbing it in.

* * *

It's a difficult task: adjusting.

How Peter hates the word.

"Don't worry, dear," his mother tells him, "you'll adjust in no time."

But Peter has no inclination to adjust. He likes being himself and realises that to adjust is to give into the pressure of those who call themselves his peers. To adjust is to betray your better sensibilities, and to follow what is generally known as "the crowd".

"Boarding school isn't so scary, Peter," his mother tells him, kissing his forehead with maternal affection. "You'll see."

But Peter doesn't want to see. He wants to stay at home with Susan, Edmund and Lucy. He wants to go on attending the little primary school down the road, where everyone is accepted, and no one is excepted.

"Please, Mum," he begs, scuffing his toe against the carpet. "Please keep me here."

Tears well in Mrs. Pevensie's eyes as she shakes her head. "No, Peter," she tells him, with a show of harsh firmness, "you must get a fine education. No more arguments."

The subject is closed. Mrs. Pevensie has put her foot down, but the foot is liable to slide. She turns away from Peter's pleading eyes, and goes on with the packing.

"It'll be alright," Susan says, large blue eyes excited beyond measure. "You'll make a lot of new friends, and learn a lot of new games, and study a lot of --" she pauses, nose wrinkled in disgust "--- a lot of maths."

Seven year old Edmund grins rakishly and clambers onto the table in the centre of the room. "You hate maths, don't you, Susan?" he laughs, swinging his legs with a brisk momentum.

"Doesn't everybody?" wonders little Lucy, who is still in the early stages of grade school. "All that addition!"

Peter laughs grimly, still unwilling to leave the shelter of those he loves. Still unwilling to adjust.

"I'm going to boarding school soon, Peter," Susan observes, smoothing her cardigan with a critical eye. "And we'll be able to write letters to each other about... I don't know... things."

"I'll write letters to you too, Peter," crows Edmund, all smiles and twinkling eyes; "I'll write a letter a week until I join you. When will I join him, Mum?" he adds, turning his attention upon the woman with her head buried in the trunk.

"Oh, a year or two," is the absent answer. Mrs. Pevensie has discovered half a jar of marmalade buried among Peter's shirts; Lucy's contribution to her brother's journey.

"Yes," says Edmund, in a tone of satisfaction, "in a year or two. That's a lot of letters."

Peter stares down at his brother's pale face, and smiles, somewhat dolefully. He ruffles Lucy's golden hair and taps her jam-covered chin. He can't leave them, can he?

Unlike Peter, Susan is relishing the idea of going on a train a fair way from home. She is already planning for the great event, which she believes will happen in no time at all. The thought of adjusting does not bother her at all. Why should it?

* * *

The day finally arrives and Peter allows himself to be hugged and kissed by his respective family. His mother gives him a paper-bag lunch and a bottle of milk, together with a lip-sticked kiss and a warm embrace. His father gives him some good advice, worn well throughout many generations, and a manly shaking of hands. Susan's gift is a kiss to cheek, and a package of sticky toffee, well wrapped up in a soggy paper bag. And Edmund, with cheerful confidence, holds out a glass jar full of bugs.

"Thanks, Eddy," Peter tells the little boy, who's eyes are round with excitement.

"I'm glad you like them," says Edmund, cheeks puffing with pride. He gives his big brother a one-armed hug, and discreetly stashes the jar in Peter's open bag.

Lucy steps forward, her lack of height made up for by her ear-splitting grin. She holds out Russle, her dog, and with childlike incomprehension, expects him to love it as much as she does. Russle is old and (no pun intended) dog-eared; one paw is hanging by the seams, and the other is covered in a sticky plum-coloured substance.

Peter takes the toy from her outstretched hands, realising (as only a big brother may) that it is a great sacrifice on Lucy's part. He pats the dirty head gingerly and promises to take care of it. The next moment his arms are filled with a bouncing little girl, and he hugs her tightly.

"It's alright, Lu," he whispers in her ear. A muffled sob and a wet cheek rubbed against his own is the only answer. Lucy's eyes are filled with tears as she pulls away and retreats to the shelter of her mother's skirts.

With a heavy heart, Peter shifts his bag uncertainly. He is terrified, for now is the time when he must enter the train... alone. He must suffer the next few months alone, and the very thought makes his stomach clench painfully.

If they only knew how much it scared him, would they send him away?

"Good-bye, son," murmurs Mrs. Pevensie, smiling through her tears. He is the first of her children to go so very far from home; and he looks so young. So very small. His blonde curls are hidden beneath a cap and the eyes which peer out from beneath the brim are reproachful.

"Bye, Mum," he sighs. He grits his teeth to keep the tears from falling. "Good-bye, Dad. Bye Susan! Bye Ed! Bye Lu!"

The shrill sound of the whistle cuts into the farewells, and the gruff voice of the porter alerts Peter to the fact that he must get on the train now, or be left behind.

He is very tempted to loiter just a little longer.

"Come along now, Peter," his father says, "all aboard that's going aboard. Do you need a hand up?"

"N - no," says Peter, firmly despite the stutter. What if one of his future schoolmates is in the station or watching from the train? Dear me, the embarrassment. Peter smiles up at his father, a little uncertainly, and uses one hand to firmly grasp the train's rail-guard. His foot slides slightly on the step as he clambers in, and it is with one last backward glance that he enters the train.

Walking firmly, Peter gives his ticket to a man for verification, before walking a little less firmly down the train's corridor. Friendly and unfriendly faces look up at him from various compartments. It is with a little difficulty that he finds his own compartment, and stows his bag along the top.

Jumping eagerly onto the cushioned seats, Peter sticks his head out the narrow window and looks around for his family. It is Lucy's bright hair and Edmund's blue jumper which catch his eye first, and with considerable trouble, he sticks his left arm out to wave.

"Good-bye!" he shouts, his voice rather lost among the general clamour of the station. "Good-bye!"

The last thing he sees, before the train swiftly rounds the bend, is Edmund's blue-clad arm raised in farewell, and his Mother's tearful smile.

* * *

Withdrawing his head and arm from the window, Peter sits back down on the seat and draws his knees to his chest, feeling alone and isolated. The only other occupant of the compartment is a rather miserable looking boy, who sniffs depressingly and brings his sleeve to his nose.

"Hullo," says Peter, lifting his head. He feels as though he has a companion in misery, and, strangely enough, the thought cheers him considerably.

The boy answers with a flat and unoriginal, "Hullo," in reply, looking at Peter with red-rimmed eyes.

"Where you headed?" Peter presses, talking to cut the oppressive silence.

"Saint James' school," answers the boy, raising his head with a sigh. "I'm boarding there while Mum visits my Aunt Sarah."

Peter has no idea who this Aunt Sarah is, but he immediately feels brighter and more cheerful.

"I'm going there, too," he says, wondering at the odds of him meeting a future school-fellow.

The other boy seems suddenly exuberant, and he drops the sleeve in favour of grinning broadly and leaning forward, his chin on clasped hands.

"Are you scared?" he asks, his thick British accent growing thicker as he becomes more interested.

"Yes," Peter answers truthfully enough, "I am. But I think I'll be alright. Now that I know somebody."

The other boy's grin widens, and he holds out a sleeve-covered hand, suddenly remembering that they have not been introduced. "I'm Smithy," he says, with considerable pride. "Alfred Smithy."

"Pevensie," offers Peter, shaking the sleeve gingerly. "Peter Pevensie."

"Well, Pevensie," says Smithy, withdrawing his hand to push the sleeve back over his elbow, "what do you expect Saint James' to be like?"

"I -- don't know," says Peter cautiously, "my father went there when he was a boy; but times where different then, you know?"

"Aye," replies Smithy, with the air of an ancient reflecting on his past, "they were. My old man says that he could buy gum balls -- big ones, Pevensie! -- for ha' penny a bag. Those were the days."

Peter nods in agreement, biting his tongue to keep from laughing at Smithy's absurd expression.

"I hope the rooms are decent," Smithy continues, his voice slightly high and whiny; "the last school I went to -- well -- the rooms were horrid and the meals were worse."

Peter, feeling slightly inexperienced, nods dumbly and bites his nether lip.

"But, dear me, Pevensie, you should have been there. My, some of the games the lads got up to at my old school."

"How many schools have you been to, Smithy?" asks Peter.

"Three," is the sober answer.

"Were you -- expelled?"

"Uh, no, 'course not," Smithy laughs sheepishly, "but some of the lads were a bit lively, caused trouble, and fought a lot. My Mum pulled me out."

"Oh," says Peter uncomfortably, "is this school any different?"

"We won't know until we get there," answers Smithy, smiling brightly and fishing in his pocket for a hankie.

"Oh. Of course," says Peter, blushing slightly. He then ventures, as Smithy blows his nose with relish, "Why were you so miserable when I got on the train?"

"Hmm? Oh. I just hate moving around," sighs Smithy, returning his hankie to his pocket and inspecting his boots. "Mum doesn't want me around home, you see. Dad not being there and all. She says I mope."

Peter feels as though he is treading on private ground, and mentally searches for a different, and safer topic.

"I -- have a family," he offers lamely, bracing his feet against the carpeted floor.

"Naturally," is Smithy's curt response. "I have one, too. Do you have sibs, Pevensie?"

"Sibs?"

"Siblings. Brother. Sister. Both."

"Uh, yes," says Peter, "a brother and two sisters."

"I have an older brother," says Smithy morosely, as if to be burdened with a brother is the most difficult cross imaginable, "he annoys me half to death. Does your brother annoy you, Pevensie?"

"No," says Peter, smiling slightly as he settles back into the cushioned back of his seat; "he is the dearest little brother in the world."

A look of jealously crosses over Smithy's face, and, for a split second, it looks as though he is about to cry. He composes himself, however, and, turning his face from Peter, laughs a high, unnatural laugh.

"Well, yes," he mutters, the sleeve creeping up to his nose, "perhaps your brother loves you more than mine."

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence, both listening to the clack of the tracks as the train continues its journey. Twice does Peter sit up and try to speak, and twice does he fail. Smithy's face is so sober, so unhappy, that he finds it difficult to broach a change of topic.

They do not speak again until the train pulls into the station.


	2. Bullies and Cowards

**AN:** What's this? An early update? Blast my eyes. I meant to post this tomorrow, or Wednesday, but the story started nagging and here, my esteemed readers, it is. Many, many thanks to the lovely people who reviewed the last chapter. You made my day.

The character named "Pug" in this chapter is in no way a reference to the Pug in _The Voyage of the Dawn Treader_. The name just seemed to fit, and so I decided to use it.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Yet.

* * *

It has been only a fortnight, but already Peter is beginning to understand the workings of the school.

And he hates it.

It's not the school. No, the school is morally sound and upstanding. It is the occupants of the school.

There are two groups of boys, Bullies and Cowards, respectively. The Bullies are those who tease the smaller students and beat them up behind closed doors. The Cowards are those who are, in a smaller sense, bullies in their own right. They tease and niggle, and create gossip about other students.

Peter isn't sure which he dislikes more.

He has had several fights with the Bullies already. He is so good-natured and naturally talented, that his grace seems to shine like a beacon to those who are, putting it plainly, the exact opposite. They resent him, and what started off as annoying, but harmless, teasing, has quickly descended to outright violence.

The tallest of the Bullies is a boy named John "Pug" Moredon. Pug, burly fellow that he is, finds a moronic delight in pinning the younger boys' arms behind their backs and cracking their fingers. The older boys – who are, in a sense, his peers – find him repulsive. They despise him. The younger boys, who cower at the mention of his name, hate and fear him. He is an outcast, but considers himself a superior; and Peter Pevensie is his particular prey.

On the first day of Peter's arrival, he tripped over this Pug's foot and received a smack to the mouth for his trouble. Pug, who sees his former, better self in the younger boy, bullies him for that very reason. For Peter remind Pug of his state of moral decay, and it makes him uncomfortable.

Pug thinks he hates this Pevensie; when really, he envies him. He envies him for his quiet charm. He envies him for the friends he has so easily made since he first arrived. He envies him for his intelligence.

Perfect child. Golden child. Pug would like to smash his head in.

Peter, although he suspects, is still rather naive to Pug's true character. He wonders, as Pug pushes him against the wall, if it is his own fault. Did he do something to make this older boy angry? Did he displease him in some way? Did he break some unspoken rule of boarding school?

Nursing a sore eye, Peter clambers to his feet and frowns after Pug's retreating back. There is such an air of malignant anger surrounding the Bully, that Peter (for his is only a child), cringes slightly and bites his nether lip.

He does not understand; and -- he is not sure he wants to.

* * *

In the confines of his little room, which, strangely enough, he shares with Smithy, Peter pours over letters from Finchley with wet eyes and a tight feeling in his chest.

His mother's letter, written in an elegant, clear hand, he reads solemnly. It is written in the belief that he is doing well, that he likes the school, and that he is excelling in his studies. A heartfelt, slightly smudged paragraph at the end causes the tears to flow afresh, and Peter blows his nose miserably.

His Father's letter, written in bold, black letters makes Peter feel very much like a soldier, worthy of his Father's tolerance, respect, and love. Clutching it in a grimy hand, Peter wipes his eyes and sits up a little straighter on the floor. He lays it aside gently, determined to read it when life seems too difficult to bear.

Susan's letter is very much like her mother's, written in a rounder, plainer hand. She asks him for the details of school life, and Peter pauses over the page, his reading suspended as he considers giving her said details. No, he decides, clenching his teeth, he will not have her worry. Biting his nether lip, he reads on as she describes the daily routine of Finchley. A fresh wave of homesickness hits him, and he lays the letter aside. He will finish it later.

Edmund's letter, smudged and dirty, he reads with a quirking of lips and a crinkling of eyes. Edmund's letter is blunt and witty, as he, too, tells of life in Finchley. Unlike Susan's letter, however, Peter feels no homesickness, and he reads it merrily to the very end.

Turning to Lucy's letter, Peter's mode sobers immediately. Being still quite young, Lucy has not yet learned to write coherently and her writings are a jumble of sentences, written in a drunken line. The sentiment is raw and heartbreaking, however, as Peter deciphers, and the homesickness hits with a malicious speed.

Pushing the pile of letters to the side, Peter lies on the floor with his nose pointed to the ceiling and his eyes tightly shut. He misses them. So much. His room seems blank and bare, compared to the warmth of his room in Finchley, and the entire school seems alien.

How he hates adjusting.

The door creaks on its hinges, as Smithy enters the room. Peter pays it no heed; his mind is elsewhere and he needs some time to himself. Smithy, however, is not about to give him this time.

"Pevensie," he says, in a hoarse whisper, "Moredon. Down the hall. Red as a mad bull."

One eyelid cracks open, as Peter surveys his friend sharply.

"What did you do?" he asks, worried for his friend's sake.

"Me?" says Smithy, who's voice has dropped to an indignant whisper. "I didn't do anything. He's after you. Why, I don't know."

Peter sits up wearily and rubs the back of his neck. "I didn't do anything to him," he says, mirroring Smithy's tone. "Lock the door," he adds, suddenly cautious, as Pug's booming voice resounds in the outside corridor.

"The door doesn't have a lock," says Smithy worriedly. "They didn't want students locking themselves in."

"This student would very much _like_ to be locked in!" exclaims Peter, startled out of his indifference by Smithy's terrified face. Leaping hurriedly to his feet, he pushes Smithy's heavy trunk across the width of the closed door, and sits on it with his legs brought up to his chest.

"Pevensie!" Pug's voice booms, and the door stiffens as a fist is thumped against it. "Open this door. I need to talk with you!"

"Talk with you, or talk to you?" Smithy wonders, sitting down beside Peter and bracing his feet against the floor. "I bet he'd talk to you while pounding your face to the floor!"

"Not -- helping -- Smithy," grits Peter, feeling like a coward. His father's letter is fresh in his mind, you see, and he does not think that he is living up to said father's expectations. He glances upwards, searching for inspiration, before lowering his head once more in defeat. "I'm going to talk with him," he adds, suddenly determined. "We are not rats in a hole."

"You're not, perhaps," says Smithy, looking very much like the ten year old boy he is, "but I'm enjoying being a rat in a hole. Rats in holes are safe."

"And despised," counters Peter.

"Oh, shut up," says Smithy exasperatingly, shuddering slightly as another thundering knock is thrown against the door. "If you want to sign your death warrant, by all means. Go ahead. I'm staying here."

Peter breathes through his nose for a single moment, before straightening his back and standing up. Without his added weight, the next knock sends Smithy and the trunk flying, and Pug stands in the open door with a cruel smile upon his face.

"What did you want to talk about?" asks Peter, more bravely then he feels.

"Someone..." begins Pug, "someone put salt in my cereal this morning and tied my shoe laces together."

"So?" asks Peter, fortunately managing to stifle a laugh.

The room seems to darken as Pug lurches forward, innocence or guilt unimportant as he latches on to Peter. It does not matter about the cereal or the laces, anymore. He is placing all his frustration against Pevensie into his fists, and the boy on the other end is feeling it.

Smithy staggers to his feet, slightly dazed by his fall, and lunges into Pug with his sweater-covered hands flying. He is not much of a fighter, true, but he is taking some of the heat off his friend, and for that Peter is grateful. Indeed, with Pug's hands around his throat, any aid is welcomed.

The boys outside the door flit around in anxious groups. Some egging the fight on, others biting their knuckles in dismay. Nearly all, except for a few of Pug's friends, who arrived at the sound of the commotion, are rooting for Peter.

Peter himself is fighting as best he may, but Pug's fists are heavy and his knees are vicious. Looking up with scared eyes, the last thing he sees is a sadistic smile on his attacker's face, and a bloody fist aimed for his temple.

Darkness.


	3. Scum

**AN:** I am so touched by the reviews I have received in regards to this story, that the next chapter is out much sooner then planned. Thank you so much for the support, and if anyone spots any historical inaccuracies, please tell me so I may rectify it. Again, thank you.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Yet.

* * *

Light... bright light. Aching head and dully throbbing pain in stomach.

"Where am I?" Peter murmurs groggily, disgusted at how weak his voice sounds. He opens his eyes and peers cautiously around the room, his tongue flickering out to wet his dry lips.

"You're in my office, dearie," a cheerful voice rings out, startling him terribly. "I'm Nurse Hildie, and you're here to get over your fall."

"Fall?" Peter questions, frowning slightly.

"Yes, dearie," Nurse Hildie smiles, placing a plump hand against his forehead; "you tripped down the stairs (nasty things, that) and landed rather hard on your poor little head."

Peter, feeling like a coddled child, sits up slowly and stares at the ruddy, buxom woman, who smiles a little too brightly.

"May I go?" he asks uncomfortably.

"Yes," the woman says sweetly, before her voice drops several tones and she says sourly, "and tell that Principal what's-his-face that I'm supposed to be on vacation!"

"Yes, ma'am," says Peter dutifully, climbing off his perch and reaching for his shoes, which have mysteriously disappeared beneath the table. He pulls them on with the usual difficulty, and turns to the door.

"And, dearie!" the nurse calls after him, her cheerfulness restored. "Don't fall down any more stairs. You could seriously hurt yourself."

"Yes, ma'am," says Peter, wondering how a blackened eye could result from a fall down the stairs.

* * *

When he returns to his room, Smithy is sitting on his own low bed, nursing his arm with careful concern. He looks up as Peter enters, and gives him a relieved grin.

"You were unconscious for ever so long," he informs him, shifting slightly and testing his wrist, "and even Pug was beginning to worry. For his own welfare, of course, Pevensie. He started howling that he, "didn't mean it, honestly"; and slapped your face several times. He thought you could rouse an unconscious person that way."

Smithy pauses to sniff contemptuously.

"Anyway," he continues, "Johnston (nice chap, that. Don't know if you've met him) ran for the teacher on some trumped up reason. Banging into a door... tripping on your laces... I'm not exactly sure what Johnston decided to use --"

"A trip down the stairs," Peter interrupts, rather sourly.

"Oh. Well, yes," says Smithy, "he decided to use that one, hmm? I wanted to go with the door, but Johnston knows best, I suppose."

"Why not just tell the teacher the truth?" suggests Peter. "Why cover up for Pug?"

Smithy sighs, rubbing his hands through his short brown hair, and looks at Peter wearily. "It's just not done that way, Pevensie," he says. "It's an unspoken rule among students. Time honoured and all that. Didn't they have such a rule about tattling at your old school?"

"Well, no," says Peter, "if a student did something wrong, it was the other students' duty to tell a superior."

"Hum," grunts Smithy. "Well, there's no such rules here. If you tattle on a fellow student, you're a snitch; and snitches are just about the worst kind of scum. Don't even think of tattling, Pevensie. It'll be more trouble then it's worth."

Smithy's tone is kind, but his words are a warning, and Peter is troubled at the implications. Sitting down on his own bed, he touches his middle gingerly, and glances at Smithy once more.

"What kind of trouble?" he asks warily.

"A lot worse then you got today," is the casual answer. "I learnt the hard way at my old school. Believe me, Pevensie, you don't tattle. You don't snitch. You keep certain things to yourself."

"But what about your brother?" protests Peter, somewhat unwisely. "If you got into trouble, surely he protected you! Or is he finished school?"

Smithy glances up, and his eyes are cold and angry.

"My brother?" he spits, contemptuously. "My brother couldn't care less. Appreciate your brother, Pevensie, and pray he doesn't turn out like mine."

Peter frowns, and the two boys lock eyes for what seems like hours. Finally, Smithy looks away sheepishly and wipes his nose with his sleeve.

"Sorry to snap at you like that," he says apologetically.

"It's fine," says Peter, with a casual inclination of his head. He is curious as to why exactly Smithy seems so bitter towards his older brother, but senses it to be a sensitive topic on Smithy's part, and does not pursue it.

"Have you finished the assignment?" Smithy offers next, as a change of subject.

"What? All fifteen pages?" Peter laughs, standing up and walking to the opposite end of the room. "I've made some progress, but it's slow."

"School hurts my brain," Smithy whines, his good-nature restored. He lies on his back and places his legs against the wall vertically. "I've never been good at it. The teacher at my first school called me dunce repeatedly, and caned me with the end of his ruler. It didn't hurt."

Smithy's tone is rather proud and he starts drumming his feet against the wall.

"I never cried, but once; and that was only because Mr. Finnegan had a strong arm for an old man. He used to run around the classroom, coattails flying and cane upraised." Smithy pauses to smile fondly. "But he was a jolly nice chap, if you didn't vex him."

Smithy turns his head to glance at Peter suddenly , a curious look in his brown eyes. "I wish you would tell me about your family," he says earnestly, his expression one of eager anticipation. "You love them very much, don't you?"

"Yes," answers Peter, turning from Smithy's searching gaze; "very much."

"Then tell me about them," says the other boy. "Tell me what it's like."

"Hmm?"

"You know, having a family."

Peter is puzzled, but hides it under a warm grin and sits upon his own bed. He does not quite understand Smithy's reluctance in reference to his own family, but brushes it off in favour of talking of those who are near and dear to his heart.

"My family," he begins, eyebrows drawn in a thin, thoughtful line, "is wonderful. I have three younger siblings: Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. Lucy is the youngest. She's the cute one. Edmund's the rascal and my only brother. Susan is almost a mother to the younger ones, and a sister and friend to me."

"Do you do things together?" asks Smithy dubiously. "Do you play with each other?"

"Why yes, of course. One day, when we're grown, we'll travel all over the world. Well, Edmund, Lu and I will. Susan isn't so keen."

A shadow crosses over Smithy's face, and he smiles wearily up at Peter, the look of a cheated child imprinted upon his face.

Thump. Thump.

He begins kicking his legs again.

"You're lucky, Pevensie," is all he says, before tumbling off his bed and hurrying towards the door. "It's most suppertime," he adds, turning with his hand on the knob. "Coming?"

"I'll be there later."

"Suit yourself."

As soon as Smithy leaves, Peter hurries to the corner of the room and retrieves his letters, from where they had been shoved in his scuffle with Pug. Picking up Susan's letter, which he has not yet finished, he handles it with gentle hands and sits with his back to the wall.

"And, Peter," Susan's letter reads, "you should have seen the mess Lucy got into last Saturday! You know how much she loves jam and what lengths she will go to to get some. Well, Mother was busy upstairs, Edmund and I were playing a game in the living room, and we all thought that Lucy was outside, playing with her toy dog. She wasn't! She was really in the little kitchen closet, eating jam. She ate ever so much, Peter, almost half the jar; before walking into the living room with her sticky hands. She put little jam hand-prints all over Mum's favourite armchair. Mum was not happy, at all."

Peter laughs merrily, unconsciously slouching more against the wall to get comfortable.

"Out of all of us, Peter, Edmund misses you the most, I think," the letter continues, quenching Peter's mirth immediately. "He doesn't say anything, but there is a pile of letters behind his bed-head addressed to you, all beginning, "My dear big brother," which Mother will not let him send, as they would clutter the mailbox. He writes a letter every evening, telling you of his day. He's still cheerful and happy, Peter, so please don't worry; but there's a lost look in his eyes, Mum says, when he's alone.

"Please don't worry, Peter. You're his only brother, so of course it must be difficult for him to adjust. He's calling me now for the stamps; so I think he's sending you a letter, too. I hope this finds you well.

Your sister,

Susan.

Peter lays the letter aside, hurries to his trunk and pulls out his set of crumpled stationary. He sits down on the floor once more, and begins writing in a firm, bold hand:

"My Dearest Little Brother."


	4. Jimmy

**AN:** This story is being written at a crazy, hectic pace mostly due to the fact that people have been so generous with their reviews, and that it just won't leave me alone! Thank you so much to those who have reviewed; it really does spur me to update more frequently.

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. Yet.

* * *

How Peter dreads his next meeting with Pug! It is destined to happen, of course, for one may only avoid another for so long; but if it could only be delayed!

Peter wakes early the next morning and slouches deeper into his bed with a sigh. Breakfast is in half an hour, and he must hurry if he wants to get there in time. Untangling himself from his blankets, Peter shudders slightly as his bare feet come into contact with the prickly carpeted floor, and shuffles to his drawer.

"Wake up, Smithy," he says groggily over his shoulder, as he searches for a fresh shirt. "It's almost seven."

Silence.

Peter turns and glances suspiciously at the Smithy-shaped lump beneath the covers.

"Wake up."

The lump moves, and Smithy's tousled head and bleared eyes appear over the edge of the blanket. "Whatdoyouwant?" the lump that is apparently Smithy slurs. "Need sleep. Nice sleep."

Peter laughs quietly, and throws his heavy boot in Smithy's general direction. It bounces harmlessly off the wall and causes Smithy to sit up with sluggish movements.

"You know what, Pevensie?"

"Hmm?"

"I really hate school."

Peter laughs quietly, and pulls his shirt from the drawer. "So I've been told," he says, pulling the shirt over his head and fixing the collar.

Smithy shrugs himself from his head to his fingertips and slides out of bed, his blanket hanging around his middle in a tangled mess. He shrieks slightly as an electric shock race across his leg from the carpet, and jumps in a roundabout way to where Peter is standing.

"Pug," he says meaningfully with another shake, reaching into his own drawer.

"I know," Peter sighs, pulling his tie around his neck with a thoughtful viciousness. "Gosh, Smithy, he's going to be worse than before."

Smithy nods in agreement, his eyes thoughtful and his lips pursed. "Could you avoid him?" he asks, untying his own tie from the bedpost.

"Could you?" retorts Peter.

"Um... no."

"Uhum," nods Peter with a long, drawn-out sigh. He pulls on his boots and reaches for his stiff blue blazer. "I'm not feeling very hungry, actually," he adds, thinking of Pug's meaty fists with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

"May I eat your breakfast, then?" asks the helpful Smithy, dropping to his knees to retrieve his boots from under the bed. "And have you seen my pants?"

Peter laughs again and points to the hook on the back of the door. "You put them there last night so that they wouldn't get lost," he observes. "And you're welcome to my breakfast."

"You're a mighty decent chap," grins Smithy, unhooking his pants and looking around absently for his blazer.

He finds it suspended from the curtain rod.

* * *

Breakfast is an... interesting affair. Peter sits stiffly at his respective table, wedged in between Smithy and a boy named Jameson. Pug glares from his own table, his minions on either side and his metal spoon clutched tightly in a clenched fist.

"You see that, boys," he says loudly, "Pevensie there can't stomach his food."

His pats his own stomach and cringes in an imitation of Peter's injuries. The minions laugh; the sound is that of brutes enjoying a ridicule.

The Cowards sit a neighbouring table, enjoying the fun as much as the Bullies. Although they lack the physical strength, they are just as black-hearted as their more violent peers, and so laugh with loud mirth.

Smithy, who eats Peter's porridge with gusto, pauses briefly to throw a sneer in Pug's direction. "Shut up, why don't you?" he says, before launching into Peter's milk.

"Need your friend to fight your battle, eh?" Pug gurgles, standing up above the minions and laughing through clenched teeth. "Not so tough now, eh?"

Peter tries to stand up, but Smithy and Jameson keep a firm grip on his arm. Smithy motions with a casual inclination of his head to where a teacher sits, his hands on his knees and his head tilted to the side.

"That's Browne," Smithy informs Peter, in a conspiratorial whisper, "he sits so, unobserved, and takes notes on the boys behaviour. He's alright, is Browne, but he's been known to exaggerate, somewhat. Not a bad trait in regard to Pug, Pevensie."

Peter glances towards the quiet teacher, wondering as he does so where Smithy gathered his information. Smithy smiles knowingly, and persuades Peter, with an insistent pressure on his arm, to sit back down.

Unfortunately, Pug has noticed the teacher, too; and suddenly becomes a picture of somewhat clumsy virtue. He smiles with sinister intention towards Peter, but to any outsider, it looks like a beam of good intent. The teacher's attention drifts elsewhere.

"Darn it," Peter hears Smithy say, and he turns to his friend with a slightly worried expression.

"What?" he whispers, and feels Jameson at his elbow lean in heavily to hear what Smithy has to say.

"Pug, whatever else he may be," Smithy answers, "is a pretty good actor. Of sorts. As long as he knows he's being watched, he'll behave."

"Teachers," Jameson pipes in, "they never interfere when you want them to."

"You never said a truer word," Smithy agrees, glaring at Browne, who is now sipping his tea with careless indifference. "Oh, and Pevensie... are you going to eat that?"

"Take it," says Peter glumly, pushing the plate towards his friend.

Pug grins smugly at Peter's downcast face, and cracks his knuckles meaningfully.

Life at Saint James, in Peter's opinion, seems bleaker every passing day.

* * *

With dragging step, Peter walks along the school's corridors. Smithy is by his side, trotting along cheerfully enough.

"I wonder why Pug has it in for you so much," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and smirking gleefully as one particularly obnoxious monitor does not notice his rule infraction of wearing his blazer sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"Who knows," says Peter wearily, tugging at his tie. He stops suddenly and glances at his wristwatch. "It's most ten. English."

"Argh. Terrible. Terrible. Terrible." Smithy places his hands over his ears and frowns stoically. "Did you study?" he adds, peering up at his friend.

"Yes," Peter nods. "Did you?"

Smithy makes a noise somewhere between assent and dissent, and bites his lip nervously. "I'll struggle through," he says, rather worried, "somehow."

Mr. Witherthorne is the teacher's name, and he glares up at the boys from his lofty height of the wooden desk. "Take your seat!" he snaps, wielding his ruler as though it were a weapon. "You're three minutes late and, by all accounts, should be marked as tardy. I'm a very lenient teacher, however, and will let you off... this time."

Smithy stifles a rather impertinent giggle at his superior's idea of lenience, and takes a seat at the far end of the school with Peter, who is shaking his head.

"You're going to get into trouble," Peter whispers hoarsely, wincing as a splinter from the hard wooden bench cuts into his leg.

"It is fate," answers Smithy flippantly.

Peter rolls his eyes and pulls out his textbook. He nudges Smithy to do the same, for the other boy is already off in dream land. "Er, what?" he says gracefully, rubbing the corner of his mouth.

"We're starting," Peter informs him, his lead pencil carefully poised above the page.

"Hang school," Smithy mutters darkly, grabbing his own book and placing it upon the desk.

Mr. Witherthorne, despite his short height and temper, is a rather efficient teacher and breezes through the lesson with only two applications of the strap. Smithy is the recipient of one; for daydreaming.

"Hate school," he whispers ruefully upon his return to the seat, sliding in sullenly. "Hate it."

"Is that talking I hear, Master Smithy?" Mr. Witherthorne says bitingly.

"No, sir," is the dutiful reply.

By an unfortunate twist of fate, Pug slouches into the room suddenly with all the grace of an elephant, and nods dumbly as the teacher marks him tardy. He hides a smug smile and takes a seat directly behind Peter's seat.

Thump.

Peter is thrown forward violently, as Pug lands a vicious kick to the back of the younger boy's seat. Sprawled across the wooden desk, Peter glances over his shoulder at the bully, a picture of startled shock and restrained anger.

Thump.

Pug kicks again.

"Master Pevensie," the teacher snaps from the front of the room, "if you can not behave, you are welcome to be introduced to Jimmy."

Mr. Witherthorne has a strange habit of naming his teaching tools. "Jimmy" is the strap which hangs with careless grace from the low desk.

"Y - yes, Sir," Peter stammers, his words punctuated by the tempo of the kicks.

Pug leaves off as quickly as he began, and leans back in his seat, watching Peter with narrowed eyes and a bitter smile. 'Trust the golden child to get off easily,' he thinks bitterly, conveniently forgetting the fact that he himself is the cause off the disturbance.

He leans forward, so that his cruelly curved mouth is level with Peter's ear, and whispers:

"Didn't mess you proper, Pevensie. I'll mess you good after class."

Peter shudders at the warm breath and leans forward with his arms crossed in front of him. He doesn't hate this Pug; no, his mum said never to hate anyone, but he feels suddenly a strong wave of intense dislike. His foot, in a movement of reflexive anger, kicks backward before he is aware, and hits Pug sharply in the shin.

"Why you little!" Pug snarls, his senses completely clouded as his temper gets the better of him. He leaps to his feet and grabs Peter by the collar, completely set on smashing the "little blighter's" face in.

"Master Moredon," Mr. Witherthorne says sharply, bringing his ruler down hard on the table, "that is enough. You will come up here for the proper punishment."

Once. Twice. Three times does Jimmy descend with brutal accuracy upon the bully's outstretched hand. Three times more.

Pug, although he is whipped regularly, feels a sense of vindictive anger towards Peter. He is humiliated, all because of that teacher's pet. He grits his teeth angrily as the strap comes once more into contact with his bare skin, and swears revenge against the boy he believes is the cause.

"I'll mess you good," he mutters in Peter's ear when he returns to his seat. "You just wait and see."


	5. Fight!

**AN:** I haven't been able to reply to all the wonderful reviews I received, but I will get to them as soon as I may. This chapter wasn't supposed to be out until Thursday, and so I hope you enjoy the comparatively quick update. :) Many, many thanks to those who reviewed.

**Disclaimer:** Nope, sorry. I still don't own this or any other franchise and book.

* * *

"Fight. Fight. Fight."

Like bloodthirsty and senseless brutes, the students of St. James' gather around the unfortunate Peter and the gloating Pug. They talk excitedly amongst themselves, laying wagers and bragging about the muscles of Pug and the quick feet of Pevensie.

Peter himself is in a daze. All he remembers after he left Mr. Witherthorne's class is the deep voice of his opponent in his ear, Smithy's insistent tugging on his arm, and the way his feet ached as he was led to the little courtyard behind the school.

"You'll be able to fight undisturbed here," Smithy informs him, pulling his blazer off his shoulders, "because the teachers' quarters are on the other side of the school. Only the students rooms are on this side, and they always love a good fight. Here, drink this."

A glass of water is thrust into Peter's face, and he drains the glass mechanically.

"Now, ever fought anyone before like this?" Smithy asks, folding Peter's blazer and laying it on the ground.

"I don't want to fight," says poor Peter.

"But you've got to," Smithy states. "Pug challenged you in the other students' hearing. It's a point of personal honour, Pevensie. That's just how things are at school."

Smithy shrugs at Peter's pointed glare. "Well, I am thinking of my personal honour," Peter says angrily. "Of what my family would think of me; and - I - I'm not fighting."

"Then consider it as self-defense," Smithy argues, his eyes drifting to where Pug stands with his shirt off and his eyes triumphant. "Pevensie, you've got to."

"Why?" Peter asks sharply, tugging at his collar, which suddenly seems more constrictive than usual.

"Because - because otherwise Pug will be worse then before."

"I don't care," says Peter, his temper flaring briefly. "Let him be a bully if he wants. I won't be a part of senseless fighting, Smithy."

Smithy is quiet, his eyes averted and his expression rather ashamed. He bends over swiftly and retrieves Peter's blazer from the ground. "I - I", he begins to say, fiddling with the button on his shirt, when Pug cuts in with a biting laugh.

"You're afraid, Pevensie," he snaps, his fists clenching and his jaw set.

"Yes," says Peter, smiling grimly, "I am. But not of you. I'm afraid of what I will become if I stoop to your level."

A shocked silence ensues. Peter stands, bravely enough, his chin tilted and his eyes full of a courage born of knowing that his family (and especially his mother) would approve.

"You're a coward, Pevensie," Pug retorts, at a loss for words. "A bleeding coward."

"Maybe I am," Peter says, taking a step backwards.

Pug grips his shirt tightly and throws it on the ground behind him. "I promised to mess you up," he says, his voice low. "And I will."

"I know," answers Peter, wincing slightly.

Another silence follows. Pug is having a hard time coping with the younger boy's calm. It's no fun bullying if the object of the violence is docile. With a cracking of his knuckles, Pug grins maliciously and grits his teeth.

"You have a sister," he states, pleased with the way Peter's head shoots up. "A little sister."

"Yes," Peter says cautiously, "I do."

"I heard that she's a pretty enough thing - nothing like you, obviously."

"You shut up about Susan," Peter snarls, startled out of his moral high-ground. "Just shut up."

"Oh, is Susan the name," Pug grins, watching Peter closely. He feels as though he know has the advantage. "I've heard that she's got black hair and blue eyes. I wonder if --"

He is cut of, suddenly, as Peter lurches forward and clips Pug along the side of the jaw. Caught off guard, the bully stumbles backwards and hits the back of his head sharply against the hard ground.

"Just shut up," Peter snaps, his fists clenched in front of him.

"Make me," Pug grimaces, clambering to his feet. He kicks at Peter's feet viciously and hammers his head with his fists, "coward."

Peter is dazed as a well-aimed blow makes itself felt on the side of his head. Dodging as best he can with Pug's bulk in front of him, he raises his fists in a defensive position.

Pug hits out again, tripping his opponent with a well-placed kick. Peter falls to the ground, face first, and struggles as Pug places a restraining elbow between his shoulder-blades.

With his breath coming in short, ragged gasps, the younger boy struggles out of his blazer and the bully's grasp by crawling backwards. He lurches to his feet and brushes back his sweaty hair with the back of his hand.

Pug is on his feet in no time at all, and again the boys grapple. The surrounding boys shout excitedly, their eyes bright and their voices hoarse.

"Come on, Pevensie! You can do better than that!"

"Lay into him, Pug. Come on!"

Smithy is shouting with a note of caution, his eyes narrowed and his lips pursed as he notices the tired look in his friend's eyes. He frowns, wipes his nose on his sleeve, and takes a step backwards.

An excited roar from Pug's minions goes up, for the bully has Peter on his knees. "Come on, Pug," a particularly excitable lackey cries. "Come on."

Pug needs no encouragement; he is already caught up in the moment and only knows that he is dealing out vengeance for the whipping he received earlier. Catching Peter's arms behind his back, he drags him to his feet and knees him in the back.

"Come on, Pug!"

Peter's eyes are clouded, his breath is sharp, and he feels as though he can not fight any longer. With a final effort, he wrenches his arms from Pug's firm grasp and collapses on the ground.

"It's Mr. Browne!"

Like dust before a gale the students of St. James disperse, and no one but a harried-looking Pug and an exhausted-looking Peter is left.

"What's all this, then?" Mr. Browne inquires, striding up and shaking Pug by his bare shoulder. "Hey now. What's all this?"

"Nothing, Sir," says Pug dutifully, cringing under the teacher's sharp glare. "P - Pevensie here tripped and fell."

Peter is rather out of things, and makes no sound of assent or dissent.

"Did he, now?" asks Mr. Browne, frowning. "I was told otherwise."

"No, sir," says Pug earnestly. "Tripped and fell, he did. Right before my eyes. I was trying to help him."

"And that would explain, I suppose," Mr. Browne says dryly, "why you're shirt-less and bloody?"

Pug swallows nervously and rubs the back of his head. "I - I fell, too."

A nervous snicker sounds from behind Mr. Browne, and Pug's head shoots up.

"Smithy," he growls.

"Eh, what's that?" Mr. Browne says. "Ah, yes, Master Smithy. It's a good thing you came to me when you did. You're friend looks rather the worse for wear -- after his, ahem, fall."

Pug is glaring and mouths the word: "Snitch", as Mr. Browne turns to Peter. It is with a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that Smithy breaks eye-contact with the bully and turns hurriedly to his friend.

"Come on, Pevensie," he whispers softly, "I'll take you to the nurse."

* * *

It is a full two hours later that Peter limps painfully back to his dorm. His whole body aches and he is worried about what the consequences of his fight will be.

"Hullo, Pevensie," is the morose greeting from his roommate. "How are you feeling?"

"Sore," groans Peter, shuffling to his bed. He lies down with his head propped up by his hand and regards Smithy searchingly. "What's wrong?"

"Uh? Oh," Smithys sighs and places his legs against the wall. It is his thinking position. "I'm in hot water, Pevensie."

"Why?" asks the oblivious Peter.

"I - I told Mr. Browne about the fight," says Smithy, his tone strained and worried. "I'm the snitch of the school. Gosh, only the Cowards will be glad to know me, now."

Peter's head shoots up, and he glances at Smithy, shocked. "You broke the unspoken rule?" he asks, leaning forward.

"Yes," says Smithy, drumming his feet against the wall in order to relieve his feelings.

"Thank you," says Peter simply, and Smithy tilts his head sideways and backwards in order to see the gratitude on Peter's face.

"You're welcome," he replies. Although he is not entirely comfortable with being the "snitch of the school", he decides that he did the right thing. "After all," he adds, "Pug wouldn't have stopped thrashing you."

"I know," says Peter solemnly. He stands suddenly and walks over to the small, narrow window at the back of the wall. He pulls back the shade and glances down at the little courtyard; "and thank you for my life, Smithy."

Smithy blushes and scratches the back of his neck sheepishly. "Aw, come on," he says, "it didn't go that far. And - and I didn't do that much."

Thump. Thump.

He starts drumming his feet to hide his embarrassment.

Peter smiles over his shoulder, and lets his thoughts drift to what happened on that courtyard such a little time ago. Once again, he is worried. Fighting is against the written school rules, and he cringes as he thinks of what the outcome will be.

"Will I be expelled," he asks suddenly, his gaze fixed on the little courtyard, "do you think?"

"Nah," says Smithy, with a sly grin, "of course you won't be. Pug might, though. He's had years to build up his offences."

Peter sighs. He doesn't want to be the cause of anyone getting expelled, no matter how obscure his part in the affair was. He sighs again, and touches his sore arm.

"I - I hope he isn't expelled," he mutters softly to himself. Smithy overhears and grunts contemptuously.

"For gumball's sake, why not?" he asks, feeling in his pocket for a clean hankie. "I thought that you, of all people, would be glad to see him gone."

"But to be expelled, Smithy," Peter argues. "That would ruin his record, and I would feel guilty for the rest of my life."

"I wouldn't," retorts Smithy flippantly. "I'd think it was a job well done. He deserves it, Pevensie. He brought it upon himself. Don't forget that."

"I won't," mutters Peter, returning to sit on his bed. "But I still hope it doesn't come to that."

"You'll know soon enough," Smithy says, inspecting his hankie. "Principals never let matters of fighting sit for long. You'll be seeing him this afternoon, most likely."

Peter flexes his sore arm and lies gingerly upon the bed. His back twinges painfully, and he can not quite stifle a pained groan.

"You'd better rest, Pevensie," says Smithy.

"I will," Peter says. Lying there with his arms behind his head, his gaze drifts to the photograph of his family on top of the little chest of drawers.

"I'm not sorry for fighting," he says, gazing at the photograph thoughtfully. "I'm just sorry that I didn't win."

Smithy grunts companionably. "Give a year, Pevensie. You'll throw Pug from here to the ocean."

Peter laughs, crawls to the foot of his bed and picks up the photograph with gentle fingers. "I wonder what my family would think of me, though."

"They'd be proud of you," says Smithy assuredly.

"I hope so." Peter replaces the photograph and shuffles back to the top of his bed. "I hope so."

They elapse into a comfortable silence, which is not broken until Jameson pokes his head in through the door.

"Pevensie. Principal," he says simply, tilting his head to the side like an inquisitive bird. "He wants to see you about the fight."


End file.
